Life in Le Bang
Apologies for a shamefully long absence, but life in Le Bang has been inexplicably busy. That, and sometimes the inspiration to write escapes me. I often find myself paralyzed by the overwhelming sights, sounds and experiences of life here. My vocabulary was not built for Bangladesh. Moosejaw, maybe, but not Bangladesh.
But, for your benefit, I'll give it my best shot... I'll warn you now, however, that this could get long. I would suggest plentiful rations of food and water and an equal measure of patience.
A Dhaka Dilemma
Let me start by sharing a recent conundrum I encountered. At a friend's house one day I was rummaging through their fridge (a friend with a pass to the American Commissary, where endless foreign delights - including perogies! - can be bought, so rummaging through their fridge was an exceptional treat) when I was instructed:
"What ever you do, don't touch that liver sausage in there."
"Why not?" (not that I was tempted by liver sausage in a fridge housing sun dried tomatoes and feta cheese).
"It's been frozen and unfrozen so many times I'm sure it's toxic."
"And why, pray tell, would you keep toxic liver sausage in your fridge?"
"Well, I can't throw it out."
"Huh?"
"If I throw it out, some poor Bangladeshi soul will dig it out of the garbage and poison their whole family."
"Good point..."
And so, the liver sausage lives in the fridge, and will do so until a suitable mode of disposal is determined. What that might be, I still have not been able to figure out. Burial seemed like a possibility, but that would undoubtedly draw a crowd of people who would promptly dig it up and eat it out of sheer curiosity, if not hunger. It's a dilemma. A Dhaka dilemma that I couldn't have dreamt up in my wildest Canadian dreams.
Beautiful Bangladesh
In the end, it took only a matter of moments for me to fall in love with Bangladesh. A matter of moments outside of Dhaka, that is. I have been fortunate to escape Dhaka to the green haven of rural life three times in the last month or so, and each time I have become more enamored with the beautiful land and people of this country. Being in rural Bangladesh is like stepping back in time: men pass by with long white beards and thick, round, black glasses that look like they belong in the 1950s; work is done with the most basic of tools, usually a pair of hands; boys dress in white thaub (tunic) and topi (cap), and girls in black burkhas or saris, and there are no Britney Spears t-shirts to be seen. It is a peaceful, magical place.
~
My first adventure was to visit a German friend volunteering at a local NGO in Mymensingh, a town about 3 hours north of Dhaka. After having my previous attempts to visit him foiled by a state of emergency and a drive-by mugging, I was concerned about how high the stakes of my efforts to leave the city might have been raised. But war didn't break out, the bus didn't crash, aliens didn't invade and I arrived in Mymensingh safe and sound.
Unfortunately, I didn't see much from the bus, as dawn was met by a pea soup fog that obscured the view of anything more than a few feet away. But eventually the fog lifted, unveiling an endless sea of rice paddies, all of different shades and densities depending on their stage of growth. The emerald quilt of paddies were home to islands of palm trees shading small houses, linked by paths being traveled by small children, women in burkhas, men on bicycles.
With Dominic, we later traveled to one of the rural project sites of his NGO. The crowded bus took us past rural towns and by rice drying compounds where women shuffled over piles of rice spreading them out to dry in the sun. And of course, more rice paddies.
We spent the afternoon riding bicycles through the countryside, with a few of the school children from their community school in tow. It was difficult to keep my Chinese bicycle from driving off the peaceful tree lined roads as my gaze wandered off to the fields where men stood knee deep in the mud planting pencil straight lines of rice seedlings. For most of our outing, we had a number of rickshaws and bicycles behind us, which I kept moving out of the way for until I finally realized they were simply there to stare. We finished the day drinking a shot glass sized cup of cha at a small tea stand, and munching on diabetes-inducing Bangladeshi sweets.
The next day we visited a small village where they had started a savings and loan project. We traveled on motorcycles, and as we sped through more incredible countryside I wished I could ride around feeling the soft air of Bangladesh rushing past me forever. I was almost sad when we arrived at our destination, but soon I was being shown around by lovely Bangladeshi women who shared success stories from their savings and loan program with me. After all 'deposits' had been registered, I was asked to sit and talk to the women. They insisted I sit in a chair, but I squatted on the ground with them for as long as my knees could handle and told them about my family, my country, my work and tried in vain to explain the mystery of being 26 and unmarried. Before leaving we were ushered into someone's house and left alone to eat sweets and drink tea. This is the Bangladeshi way - you don't eat with your guests. I didn't even try to explain that for me the whole point of visiting was to spend time with them, as it was clear they wouldn't accept this. So I ate my sweets and looked around the one room house pondering what it would feel like to wake up in the morning in the bed I was sitting on, which was right next to where the cow slept.
~
My next trip was to Cox's Bazaar, the world's longest beach (or so they say). Also the world's most crowded beach. For me, the number of Bangladeshis bathing in their clothes was a much more interesting sight than the long stretch of sand itself, which is not much to write home about (or blog about, in this case). But, despite being slightly disappointed with the beach, there were other beautiful sights to see. My favourite were the kerosene lamps under each rickshaw that floated down the road like dancing fireflies in the total darkness. I also enjoyed the side trip I took to Teknaf, the most southern town in Bangladesh, on the border with Myanmar. The landscape was more hilly (which, in comparison with the total flatness of most of Bangladesh, doesn't really say much) and I was able to observe salt production and see some Burmese refugee camps, as well as a more tranquil beach lined with beautiful fishing boats.
Arriving home to Dhaka coincided with the last day of the world's second largest Muslim pilgrimage, Bishwa Ijtema, and the drive into town was so slow that we were being passed by the millions of pilgrims traveling into the city on foot. Those that weren't walking we packed in, on, under, over and between buses, trucks, cars and rickshaws. There were also trains passing frequently with crowds of people covering every inch of their roofs.
~
This last week, I traveled to Chanpur, the most religiously conservative district in the country. I was there with a group of people from CIDA and Foreign Affairs Canada to visit the projects of a local, rural-development NGO. We began our tour by visiting a number of households of people living in what is considered 'extreme' poverty. Each household had been supported by the organization in different ways, such as being provided with an income generating asset (like a cow, for example), and I was pleased to hear how positively they spoke of the subsequent improvements in their lives. Next, we visited a school for children of extremely poor families, where we were greeted with the smiling faces of a group of children from 6 to 8 sitting on the floor in a one room school. Over 60% of the children were girls, an important achievement in a country where the barriers to education for girls are seemingly endless. They ended our visit by singing the national anthem for us, so, in return, another Canadian woman and I sang for them (for those of you who have heard me sing, you will agree that no child could do anything sinister enough to deserve such a punishment, but I didn't have much choice in the matter). We decided on "Skinnamarinky dinky dink" and, while they all seemed to like the song, I fear we may return in a few months only to find that children are trying to speak to foreigners by shouting "skinnamarinky dinky dink!!".
Later that day, we were taken to a one-room 'outreach' clinic, where a paramedic (they have not been able to find a qualified doctor willing to work for their rural NGO) and a nurse were tending to a long line of women with small children in tow. The most common ailments included diarrhea, fever, skin diseases, various infections and nutrition-related problems. The main clinic, which I visited the next day, served over 26,000 children under 5 in 2004. The next year, funding to their health program was cut off and the number of children under 5 served was less than 5,000. To run the main clinic and two outreach clinics at their current levels costs about $160 a month.
When we weren't in the field visiting projects, it seems we spent all of our time in the dining room of the training centre where we were staying. Hospitality is taken very seriously in Bangladesh, and our protests that so much time, effort and resources should not be put into feeding us fell on deaf ears. Fortunately, the food was lovely, and the many meals and tea breaks gave us a chance to have a number of interesting conversations about the projects, development in general, and the ever changing political context.
There was a lot of discussion focused on the need for family planning services (mainly meaning contraceptives), which our host NGO said were not being provided by the government, and on how to address the issue of dowry. Although dowry is illegal and goes against Muslim beliefs, it is commonly practiced throughout Bangladesh. Parents often have to give as much as 25,000 taka (almost $500) for their daughter's dowry, which can be more than a family's annual income. Many families who promise to pay dowry at the time of their daughter's marriage are simply unable to, which often results in the daughter being physically abused by her husband and in-laws, who feel they have been cheated.
I stayed an extra day on my own and was able to visit a few more projects. In the morning I spent some time with a group of women who had taken out small, interest free loans. The group falls under the category of 'Women's Development', but I was disheartened to discover that 11 of the 12 women there had used the loans to support their husband's business (the last woman had no husband). It was an example of how even the most well-intended intervention can have unintended outcomes: the women were now essentially responsible for paying back money that they had no control over; hardly an empowering experience.
We then visited some more families in other communities who had benefited from support such as asset transfers, small loans and training programs. With another Malawian woman volunteering with the organization, we asked every woman we met about their feelings towards and experiences with dowry, as well as their knowledge about and use of contraceptives. Everyone responded that they were against dowry but felt they had to give it in order to find a husband for their daughter. I was surprised to learn that a number of women were using contraceptives, saying they had purchased them from the house of a local government worker.
Eventually, we ended up at the clinic where, after a tour that included a stop at the x-ray room whose x-ray machine had not worked for over 6 months, I spoke to the nurse about the demand for family planning services. She said that there were many women who wanted to access contraceptives but, since they did not have the funds to provide them at the clinic, she referred them to the local government office.
Out of curiosity, I asked if we could swing by the government office to see what they had to say. It turns out that contraceptives are offered for free, and are distributed by 72 field workers throughout the upazila (sub district region), as well as being available at a number of satellite centres. When we explained that we had been told that women were having to travel to the houses of government workers to pay for contraceptives, the government official we were speaking to agreed to support an awareness program where each community could be introduced to their field worker, informed of their right to access free contraceptives, told where to go if they need to access them on a day that the field worker does not visit, and encouraged to provide feedback on any problems they encounter. Although I know that the solution may not be as simple as it seems, it did feel rewarding to know that at least one small step forward may be taken as a result of that visit.
~
Well, I’ve gone on for long enough I think. I have plenty more to tell, but will save it for another day.
But, for your benefit, I'll give it my best shot... I'll warn you now, however, that this could get long. I would suggest plentiful rations of food and water and an equal measure of patience.
A Dhaka Dilemma
Let me start by sharing a recent conundrum I encountered. At a friend's house one day I was rummaging through their fridge (a friend with a pass to the American Commissary, where endless foreign delights - including perogies! - can be bought, so rummaging through their fridge was an exceptional treat) when I was instructed:
"What ever you do, don't touch that liver sausage in there."
"Why not?" (not that I was tempted by liver sausage in a fridge housing sun dried tomatoes and feta cheese).
"It's been frozen and unfrozen so many times I'm sure it's toxic."
"And why, pray tell, would you keep toxic liver sausage in your fridge?"
"Well, I can't throw it out."
"Huh?"
"If I throw it out, some poor Bangladeshi soul will dig it out of the garbage and poison their whole family."
"Good point..."
And so, the liver sausage lives in the fridge, and will do so until a suitable mode of disposal is determined. What that might be, I still have not been able to figure out. Burial seemed like a possibility, but that would undoubtedly draw a crowd of people who would promptly dig it up and eat it out of sheer curiosity, if not hunger. It's a dilemma. A Dhaka dilemma that I couldn't have dreamt up in my wildest Canadian dreams.
Beautiful Bangladesh
In the end, it took only a matter of moments for me to fall in love with Bangladesh. A matter of moments outside of Dhaka, that is. I have been fortunate to escape Dhaka to the green haven of rural life three times in the last month or so, and each time I have become more enamored with the beautiful land and people of this country. Being in rural Bangladesh is like stepping back in time: men pass by with long white beards and thick, round, black glasses that look like they belong in the 1950s; work is done with the most basic of tools, usually a pair of hands; boys dress in white thaub (tunic) and topi (cap), and girls in black burkhas or saris, and there are no Britney Spears t-shirts to be seen. It is a peaceful, magical place.
~
My first adventure was to visit a German friend volunteering at a local NGO in Mymensingh, a town about 3 hours north of Dhaka. After having my previous attempts to visit him foiled by a state of emergency and a drive-by mugging, I was concerned about how high the stakes of my efforts to leave the city might have been raised. But war didn't break out, the bus didn't crash, aliens didn't invade and I arrived in Mymensingh safe and sound.
Unfortunately, I didn't see much from the bus, as dawn was met by a pea soup fog that obscured the view of anything more than a few feet away. But eventually the fog lifted, unveiling an endless sea of rice paddies, all of different shades and densities depending on their stage of growth. The emerald quilt of paddies were home to islands of palm trees shading small houses, linked by paths being traveled by small children, women in burkhas, men on bicycles.
With Dominic, we later traveled to one of the rural project sites of his NGO. The crowded bus took us past rural towns and by rice drying compounds where women shuffled over piles of rice spreading them out to dry in the sun. And of course, more rice paddies.
We spent the afternoon riding bicycles through the countryside, with a few of the school children from their community school in tow. It was difficult to keep my Chinese bicycle from driving off the peaceful tree lined roads as my gaze wandered off to the fields where men stood knee deep in the mud planting pencil straight lines of rice seedlings. For most of our outing, we had a number of rickshaws and bicycles behind us, which I kept moving out of the way for until I finally realized they were simply there to stare. We finished the day drinking a shot glass sized cup of cha at a small tea stand, and munching on diabetes-inducing Bangladeshi sweets.
The next day we visited a small village where they had started a savings and loan project. We traveled on motorcycles, and as we sped through more incredible countryside I wished I could ride around feeling the soft air of Bangladesh rushing past me forever. I was almost sad when we arrived at our destination, but soon I was being shown around by lovely Bangladeshi women who shared success stories from their savings and loan program with me. After all 'deposits' had been registered, I was asked to sit and talk to the women. They insisted I sit in a chair, but I squatted on the ground with them for as long as my knees could handle and told them about my family, my country, my work and tried in vain to explain the mystery of being 26 and unmarried. Before leaving we were ushered into someone's house and left alone to eat sweets and drink tea. This is the Bangladeshi way - you don't eat with your guests. I didn't even try to explain that for me the whole point of visiting was to spend time with them, as it was clear they wouldn't accept this. So I ate my sweets and looked around the one room house pondering what it would feel like to wake up in the morning in the bed I was sitting on, which was right next to where the cow slept.
~
My next trip was to Cox's Bazaar, the world's longest beach (or so they say). Also the world's most crowded beach. For me, the number of Bangladeshis bathing in their clothes was a much more interesting sight than the long stretch of sand itself, which is not much to write home about (or blog about, in this case). But, despite being slightly disappointed with the beach, there were other beautiful sights to see. My favourite were the kerosene lamps under each rickshaw that floated down the road like dancing fireflies in the total darkness. I also enjoyed the side trip I took to Teknaf, the most southern town in Bangladesh, on the border with Myanmar. The landscape was more hilly (which, in comparison with the total flatness of most of Bangladesh, doesn't really say much) and I was able to observe salt production and see some Burmese refugee camps, as well as a more tranquil beach lined with beautiful fishing boats.
Arriving home to Dhaka coincided with the last day of the world's second largest Muslim pilgrimage, Bishwa Ijtema, and the drive into town was so slow that we were being passed by the millions of pilgrims traveling into the city on foot. Those that weren't walking we packed in, on, under, over and between buses, trucks, cars and rickshaws. There were also trains passing frequently with crowds of people covering every inch of their roofs.
~
This last week, I traveled to Chanpur, the most religiously conservative district in the country. I was there with a group of people from CIDA and Foreign Affairs Canada to visit the projects of a local, rural-development NGO. We began our tour by visiting a number of households of people living in what is considered 'extreme' poverty. Each household had been supported by the organization in different ways, such as being provided with an income generating asset (like a cow, for example), and I was pleased to hear how positively they spoke of the subsequent improvements in their lives. Next, we visited a school for children of extremely poor families, where we were greeted with the smiling faces of a group of children from 6 to 8 sitting on the floor in a one room school. Over 60% of the children were girls, an important achievement in a country where the barriers to education for girls are seemingly endless. They ended our visit by singing the national anthem for us, so, in return, another Canadian woman and I sang for them (for those of you who have heard me sing, you will agree that no child could do anything sinister enough to deserve such a punishment, but I didn't have much choice in the matter). We decided on "Skinnamarinky dinky dink" and, while they all seemed to like the song, I fear we may return in a few months only to find that children are trying to speak to foreigners by shouting "skinnamarinky dinky dink!!".
Later that day, we were taken to a one-room 'outreach' clinic, where a paramedic (they have not been able to find a qualified doctor willing to work for their rural NGO) and a nurse were tending to a long line of women with small children in tow. The most common ailments included diarrhea, fever, skin diseases, various infections and nutrition-related problems. The main clinic, which I visited the next day, served over 26,000 children under 5 in 2004. The next year, funding to their health program was cut off and the number of children under 5 served was less than 5,000. To run the main clinic and two outreach clinics at their current levels costs about $160 a month.
When we weren't in the field visiting projects, it seems we spent all of our time in the dining room of the training centre where we were staying. Hospitality is taken very seriously in Bangladesh, and our protests that so much time, effort and resources should not be put into feeding us fell on deaf ears. Fortunately, the food was lovely, and the many meals and tea breaks gave us a chance to have a number of interesting conversations about the projects, development in general, and the ever changing political context.
There was a lot of discussion focused on the need for family planning services (mainly meaning contraceptives), which our host NGO said were not being provided by the government, and on how to address the issue of dowry. Although dowry is illegal and goes against Muslim beliefs, it is commonly practiced throughout Bangladesh. Parents often have to give as much as 25,000 taka (almost $500) for their daughter's dowry, which can be more than a family's annual income. Many families who promise to pay dowry at the time of their daughter's marriage are simply unable to, which often results in the daughter being physically abused by her husband and in-laws, who feel they have been cheated.
I stayed an extra day on my own and was able to visit a few more projects. In the morning I spent some time with a group of women who had taken out small, interest free loans. The group falls under the category of 'Women's Development', but I was disheartened to discover that 11 of the 12 women there had used the loans to support their husband's business (the last woman had no husband). It was an example of how even the most well-intended intervention can have unintended outcomes: the women were now essentially responsible for paying back money that they had no control over; hardly an empowering experience.
We then visited some more families in other communities who had benefited from support such as asset transfers, small loans and training programs. With another Malawian woman volunteering with the organization, we asked every woman we met about their feelings towards and experiences with dowry, as well as their knowledge about and use of contraceptives. Everyone responded that they were against dowry but felt they had to give it in order to find a husband for their daughter. I was surprised to learn that a number of women were using contraceptives, saying they had purchased them from the house of a local government worker.
Eventually, we ended up at the clinic where, after a tour that included a stop at the x-ray room whose x-ray machine had not worked for over 6 months, I spoke to the nurse about the demand for family planning services. She said that there were many women who wanted to access contraceptives but, since they did not have the funds to provide them at the clinic, she referred them to the local government office.
Out of curiosity, I asked if we could swing by the government office to see what they had to say. It turns out that contraceptives are offered for free, and are distributed by 72 field workers throughout the upazila (sub district region), as well as being available at a number of satellite centres. When we explained that we had been told that women were having to travel to the houses of government workers to pay for contraceptives, the government official we were speaking to agreed to support an awareness program where each community could be introduced to their field worker, informed of their right to access free contraceptives, told where to go if they need to access them on a day that the field worker does not visit, and encouraged to provide feedback on any problems they encounter. Although I know that the solution may not be as simple as it seems, it did feel rewarding to know that at least one small step forward may be taken as a result of that visit.
~
Well, I’ve gone on for long enough I think. I have plenty more to tell, but will save it for another day.
posted by ash at 11:04 PM
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